Falling Stars
by carpenoctem22
Summary: Mabel Pines is a star pilot with a mission. Pacifica Northwest is a soldier turning traitor. Dipper is a scavenger who just wants to find his family. (Or, the Star Wars AU no one asked for.)
1. Chapter 1

**I have only twenty-five percent of an idea where I'm going with this, and that's from sticking to the movie's plot - but here's the Force Awakens AU nobody wanted, slightly skewed Gravity Falls style. It should be pretty obvious who's who, but expect a lot to diverge from canon.**

* * *

 **Beginnings**

It begins with a girl trapped behind a mask, wide-eyed and heavy breathing. Her fingers shake, barely holding her gun, though her mind is screaming at her to grasp it firmly, to point it up, to place her fingers on the trigger and pull-

This is her legacy, her inheritance. This is what she was born to do, what her family does. It is an honor, a respectable cause – a demonstration. This is the First Order, the growing force her family has long been part of.

This is her. The immaculate white armor that suffocates her where she stands, that tiles the bodies of her fellow soldiers, her family. Sand beneath her feet, gun in her hands, the villagers cowering before them. They've already killed the old man, taken the pilot to the ship – she'll be dead soon enough. What's a few more lives to the glorious cause of the First Order? To the honored legacy of her family?

She has her orders.

But she can't-

She won't-

Her fingers are still loose. No beams of bright light escape her gun.

And as the dark helmet stares her down from across the battlefield, the blood from her fellow soldier trickling slowly down her helmet, she decides.

* * *

Or maybe it begins earlier-

* * *

The barren, sandy expanses of Jakku are a new sight to her eyes, despite having flown far and wide across the galaxy. Any other time she'd have loved to explore the new planet, to take in the sights (though something tells her she's already seen it all) – but those are sights for another time. There is time to be the excited, adventurous girl later.

Now, she is Mabel Pines, star pilot of the Resistance and the closest to finding Stanford Pines in years.

 _And maybe-_

Her uncle's friend hurries her inside the tent, eyes wary on the horizon. He's aged since she last saw him, his hair a wispy white that matches his thick beard. But his eyes are bright and alert, and she knows they've found their lead.

"You have it?" she whispers, her hands knitting and unknitting.

He smiles at her, and presses a small, leather bag into her hands. "Tell Stanley to have that left hook ready," he says.

Mabel's heart flips in her chest. "The map," she says, hesitantly. "Is it just – I know it's to him, but does it – do you think – that maybe he's-"

He gazes at her in sympathy, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Mabel," he says, softly. "But when your uncle's brother left, he left alone."

Something long-shattered in her heart breaks again. Her fingers tighten around the bag. "I'll find him," she says, fiercely. "I'll bring him back. He'll make things right."

For the first time since she's known him, hope spreads across the old man's face. "I hope you do," he says. "May the force-"

She stiffens, the familiar nudge in the back of her mind flooding her chest with ice. She stares at him in panic.

She can already hear the sound of TIE fighters above them.

"Go," he whispers.

Mabel's always hated running away from fights, but this time she has no choice. "C'mon, Waddles," she hisses, sprinting for her fighter. Technically, her droid's name is W-DL5 – but Waddles has always been more than a droid to her, despite how Stan teases her for it. The thought of her uncle brings an ache to her heart, and she's almost glad as she swings herself into the cockpit.

And then they notice her.

Mabel's head snaps forward as the blast hits her ship, a sensation she's more familiar with than not. This one feels like a doozy, she thinks, with a sinking heart, shoving her way out of the cockpit. A laserburst whips inches past her head as she stumbles on the sand, fingers crossed and hoping beyond hope as she assesses the damage.

She swears, staring at the smoldering wound in her fighter with despair. Star pilot or not, there's no way she's making it off the planet in that. She glances back at the chaos in the village, anger and grief mixing as she watches the First Order's destruction. She grabs her gun from the damaged fighter and drops to a knee by Waddles.

"Here," she says, slipping the smooth, metal chip from the bag and transferring it to the droid. "Get as far away from here as you can with this, alright?"

The droid whines, nudging against her. Mabel pats the domed head, managing an almost-optimistic smile.

"I'll be back for you," she says. "I promise."

* * *

The rusting, heavy air of the abandoned star destroyer is oppressive, choking him as it would if he hadn't wrapped his face first. The old metal bruises his fingers as he yanks another part free, the metallic snap a welcome sound in the empty silence.

He thinks he used to like silence, before he came to this hellhole of a planet.

Whenever that was.

Giving up on the rest of the circuitry, he pockets the part and pushes back, fingers burning as he slides the long way down the cord. His feet hit packed sand that gives way to looser, grainier sand as he trudges his way out, squinting against the sudden brightness. He pulls his goggles off wearily, staring out at the endless hills of sand. He takes another moment, his fingers brushing against the part he brought down, before slinging it into the speeder with the rest of his scavengings. Hopefully, this will be enough.

If not, it's not as if he hasn't gone hungry before.

Sometimes, he wants to resent his family for leaving him on Jakku, desolate, joyless place that it is.

Most of the time, he just wants them to come _back_.

Jakku's sun is low in the sky, casting the sand in purple-orange, by the time Dipper flings his staff against his makeshift home's wall in frustration, the few measly food packets nearly crushed in his hand. His irritation at the dealer is matched only by the gnawing pit of anxiety growing in his gut. If that's all he's going to get paid for a day's worth of scavenging, he's going to have to start looking elsewhere – he's almost picked the ruins of the Star Destroyer clean by now, and pulled apart and put back together too many other parts to be of use. That, or he's going to have to stay out later.

Dipper glances out at the darkening desert, miles and miles of emptiness stretching on forever. He tucks himself further into the abandoned AT-AT walker.

He really, really hates sand.

Dipper isn't his real name, but it's as good as one. He supposes three-year-old's can't be held accountable for remembering much, but it's still disheartening not to remember _that_ , at least. And it's not like there's anyone he can ask, either. No one knows who he is. No one knows where he came from. He's just the scavenger with the weird birthmark who named himself.

He won't be that forever, he thinks, watching a lone ship escape the atmosphere, a pang of longing in his chest. They'll come back for him – whoever _they_ are – he knows they will. They have to. They promised. (He thinks).

He doesn't remember his family, but he dreams, sometimes. He dreams of oceans, dark, crashing waves and the tangy smell of salt – of trees, thick and towering and green, the sound of leaves crunching – a warm weight on his shoulder, a hand in his – a girl. He'll dream of her, sometimes, hear echoes of laughter, catch a glimpse of eyes brighter than Jakku's sun-

He'll wake with tears in his eyes. The girl's laughter is gone, along with the sound of waves and the trees, but her eyes are seared into his memory. _If_ they're memories. If they're not just – not just another dumb hope-

He has a family. He has to – he has to be _somebody_.

Dipper's not a crier, because crying on Jakku is a waste of perfectly good water. But his eyes still smart as he watches the sun dip below the horizon, feels the cold begin to seep through the wraps on his arms.

And then he hears the droid.

* * *

The name Northwest is known well throughout the First Order as a name of high rank and respect. Today, it's going to be known as the name of a traitor.

The thought doesn't sicken Pacifica as much as it should.

She made her decision on the battleground on Jakku, and this pilot has given her the chance to make it a reality. She's not going to stand by and let someone order her to kill more people – she's not going to stand by while an innocent (well, not really innocent, but more so than anyone here) girl is tortured. Besides, she needs a pilot and the prisoner fits the bill.

She hopes.

It takes her a while – there is far too much time between the dark one – the sith's – entry and departure, but Pacifica is patient. Her very genetics determine her to be. Whatever her parents were thinking, handing her over to the First Order, she doesn't dwell on.

When she finally leads the prisoner out of the cell, it's with a hammering heart and sweaty palms. The Resistance pilot looks almost as weak-kneed as she feels, her face pale and haunted. Pacifica waits until the corridor is empty before tugging the brown-haired girl into a corner, swallowing against her raging nerves.

"Can you fly us out?" she hisses, breathlessly. The girl stares at her blankly.

"Huh?"

Pacifica yanks her helmet off in frustration. Wisps of blonde hair stick to the sweat on her face where they've escaped her braided bun. "I'm rescuing you, okay? I've got a plan, I just need you to-"

"Why are you helping me?" the girl asks, her eyes narrowing. Pacifica wants to scream. They don't have time for this.

"Because it's the right thing to do," she says, in a whispered burst. The resistance pilot stares at her a second longer. Her mouth splits into a grin.

"You need a pilot."

"I need a pilot."

The grin grows wider. "Let's do this."

* * *

"I'm Mabel, by the way!"

Pacifica almost misses the girl's shout – she's too preoccupied with the entire army of people trying to kill her, this rescue is going fantastically – but zooming through space at an almost inconceivable speed, watching as the girl fly as they dodge missile after missile by inches, the taste of freedom is a giddy recklessness coursing through her system, she replies automatically.

"I'm Pacifica!"

"That's a pretty name!" the girl – Mabel – yells back, turning to flash her a grin before she hurls their TIE fighter through the narrow gap between steel plating. "I can't wait to bring you back to the Resistance with me – my Grunkle's gonna love you!"

Pacifica has no idea who this "Grunkle" is, but the location sounds wonderfully far away.

"Great!" she yelps, fingers clenching on the trigger button as another TIE fighter swoops into view. "If we jump now we can make it to the next system and steal a ship-"

Mabel interrupts her. "No, we gotta go back to Jakku first!"

"What?!" Pacifica all but shrieks. "You want to go back?! They'll catch us!"

"I left my droid there-"

"Get another one!"

"-he has a map to Stanford Pines!"

Pacifica swears, half in frustration, half in shock. Stanford Pines? What in _kriffing_ _hell_ has she gotten herself into-

"And there's no way I'm leaving Waddles behind," Mabel mutters.

Pacifica would've asked who Waddles was, had one of the missiles not finally found its target.

Her last though before the world goes black is that _stars, she really hates this planet._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much for all the reviews on the first chapter! Here's hoping the next ones go half as well...**

* * *

Pacifica wakes to the sandpaper-scrape of thirst in her throat and the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of sweat. Lots of sweat.

She blinks, wiping grains of sand from where they've stuck in her eyes as she squints against the harsh glare of the sun. Her body feels like one giant bruise, as if she's back in preliminary training again and her commander is screaming that she's never going to be more than a spoiled rich girl who can't pull a trigger worth a damn-

Pacifica forcibly halts the memory, shaking off the sudden rush of cold against her spine, no matter how welcome it is in the desert heat. When she'd been here that night – _was it only a night ago?_ – she had taken the cool cover of darkness for granted.

No, the planet is much, much worse in the daytime.

She pushes herself forward, stumbling in the heavy, sliding sand. She curses, pulling violently at the armored plating on her legs. Blast this armor, she should have dressed like Mabel-

 _Blast._

Pacifica's armor is forgotten in an instant as she sprints forward, slipping and sliding across the sand dunes as she makes her way to the curling smoke plume in the distance. She'd forgotten – how could she have forgotten Mabel? The pilot was her only link to safety, now her only ally-

 _Her friend?_

It takes her the better part of an hour to reach the wrecked TIE fighter, and her stomach drops when she sees it. The fighter is smashed and smoldering, tongues of orange flame lapping out the windows as thick, black smoke streams from the interior. Pacifica doesn't stop to think, surging forward to grab the knit jacket Mabel was wearing, throwing it across her shoulder as she bangs against the glass that's left.

"Mabel!" her heart is already heavy in her chest, her body telling her what her brain refuses to acknowledge.

There's an awful, guttural, slurping sound, and Pacifica stumbles back, watching in horror as the fighter drowns in the sand pit. Mabel's sweater hangs limply from her fingers as she watches it disappear.

Pacifica has to fight the urge to fall to her knees and cry. She's alone.

* * *

Dipper doesn't _mean_ to steal the droid. It just sort of…happens. He's never liked scavengers that steal things that clearly have a mind of their own, and it was hardly as if he was going to just _watch_ as the tiny droid was dragged off. Besides, the little thing followed _him_ – he tried to get it to leave. And it's not as if he's keeping him – it, _it_ – personally or anything. One night. That's all.

But it's one night where his makeshift home isn't silent, one night he wakes up from nightmares and something responds, one night he's not utterly _alone_. So can he be blamed, really, for telling the dealer it's not for sale?

Finders, keepers. And the droid seems to like him, too, as unbelievable as that it. The droid is obviously of good make, sturdy and determined and stubborn – so stubborn. He's still got no idea who it belongs to – WDL-5, as the droid tells him it's name, is classified – but at this point, he doesn't care. The little rolling droid that he rescued likes him, ragged clothes and unwashed hair and all. And Dipper likes having someone – thing – to talk to. As much as the dealer's high offer tempts him, he's not selling. For anything.

Maybe that's why he fights so hard when the two thugs try and steal WDL-5 from him.

* * *

By the time she reaches the settlement, Pacifica swears she'll never set foot three miles away from a body of water again. She's drenched in sweat, her limbs heavy and sluggish in the heat even without the armored plating she'd stripped off, leaving her in her thin black jumpsuit, Mabel's sweater tied loosely around her waist. Her throat burns every time she tries to swallow and black spots flicker before her eyes – it takes her a moment to convince herself that the settlement is not, in fact, a mirage.

When she does, she wastes no time. Any instinctive revulsion she'd have towards the villagers or their furnishings are stomped out by the desperate thirst in her throat, and she honestly does not give a _damn_ what her parents would say about her drinking from an open well.

It doesn't stop her from gagging in revulsion once she can breath again, though.

She wipes some of the sweat from her brow, eyes flicking over the small settlement. It doesn't seem to be much, probably even smaller than the village her unit was at earlier, all beaten metal and worn-cloth tents propped up against each other, salvaged junk and seedy vendors littering the grounds. Not exactly the place she would have chosen to find. How is she supposed to find transport _here?_

A sudden cry of anger pulls her attention, and she shoots to her feet, edging towards the commotion. Her eyes widen as she sees a young boy wrestling against the hold of two thugs, the tiny pink and grey droid at his feet trilling in panic. She feels a surge of anger as she watches one thug throw a hit at the boy, the injustice of the attack sending her feet moving of their own accord. They might be fine with attacking some skinny, unarmed boy, but let's see how they fare against one of the First Order's trained killers-

She halts. The boy has ducked out of the one thug's grasp, twisting under the other's arm before her swings his staff with a violent crack against one's head. The first thug falls, and the other is quick behind, his feet swept out beneath him by the boy's leg before he sends his staff plunging viciously against the side of his head.

Pacifica blinks. Well. Looks like the boy can take care of himself.

The droid suddenly swivels to her, a flurry of beeps and whistles escaping it. The boy's eyes suddenly lock onto hers, and Pacifica takes a step back. The boy's face twists into a snarl as he charges her, and Pacifica turns on heel.

She ducks through the mess of tents and metal, wondering how the hell she's managed to piss someone off _this_ quickly. She has no idea what his problem with her is, she thinks in anger as she ducks under another tent. She's never even _seen_ him-

The boy's staff cracks against her head and she hits the ground, stars exploding across her vision.

He's _definitely_ stronger than he looks.

"Who are you?" the boy barks, his voice too loud against Pacifica's pounding skull. "And what'd you do to the pilot?"

The boy's voice is firm, lower than she expected and tinted with a slight accent significant of the outer rim. Pacifica winces, glaring at him as she rubs her head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she hisses. "Who do you think you are?"

The boy returns the glare. "He-" he gestures to the droid. "Says you've got his master's jacket. So what'd you do to her?" The droid beeps angrily for emphasis.

"The sweater…?" Pacifica's eyes widen in realization. "You're Mabel's droid! WDL-5!" The boy looks at the droid uncertainly. The droid rolls closer, the chirrup of beeps now inquisitive. "I helped her escape from the First Order," Pacifica says, hurriedly. "She was coming back for you when –" Pacifica pauses, the grief that hits her unexpected. "She didn't survive the crash," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

The droid gives a low, sorrowful beep, its domed head swiveling down in misery. The boy lowers his staff, staring at the two with slight wariness and unexpected sympathy.

"Here," the boy says, guilt flickering in his voice as he extends a hand to her. "I'm sorry."

Pacifica stares up at him, truly looking at him for the first time. He looks to be around her age, with curling brown hair escaping his head wrap and darker brown eyes, his skin tanned from the planet's sun. He's rather easy on the eyes, to be honest. With a jolt, she realizes she's left him hanging, and she quickly grabs his hand and hoists herself up, her face flushing.

"I would have done the same, I suppose," she mutters. The boy stares at her, his eyes wide and curious.

"Are you part of the Resistance, then?" he says, his voice tinged with awe. Pacifica starts, shifting under his gaze. The denial freezes on her tongue, dying slowly at the eager, open look in the boy's eyes. The way he's looking at _her_.

"Yes," she says, scarcely believing the words that come out of her mouth. "I am."

She feels more than sees the droid look up at her suspiciously. She opens her mouth to continue, but the sudden, too-familiar screeching stops her. Her blood grows icy cold in her veins as she meets the boy's eyes in panic.

"Run," she whispers. "TIE fighters, run!"

She grabs the boy's hand, pulling him forward. She blindly registers his protests as he attempts to yank his hand free – with the pitch they're at, the fighters should be right overhead-

The ground explodes behind them, sending the both of them flying forward, crashing hard into the sand. Pacifica coughs, wiping at her irritated eyes as she immediately shoves herself to her feet, years of training making the action instinct. She glances at the boy, who's struggling up, shaky hands wiping sand from his face.

"You okay?" she says, offering him her hand. They've got less than seconds, but she needs him to shake off the shellshock if they're going to get out of this.

The boy's brown eyes go wide at the question, a sort of painful bemusement crossing his face at her question. He quickly nods, though, determination replacing the fear in his eyes.

"I'm good," he says, grasping her hand. She almost flinches at the wave of heat the contact gives her. "Let's go."

* * *

In all of Dipper's dreams of escaping the planet, he'd certainly never hit on _this._ There was a distinct lack of fighter pilots trying to blast him to dust in those. But he'll take it, because he's got two people that seem to – have concern – _care?!_ The girl's question is still ricocheting in his skull, because _no one's ever asked-_

The screeching becomes near unbearable again, and Dipper shoves his thoughts to the side.

"We need someone who can fly!" The blonde girl yells, over the screeching of the fighters.

"What, you _can't?!_ What kind of Resistance fighter are you?"

"The one that _shoots_ people that annoy her!" Sheer irritation breaks through the fear in the girl's tone.

Dipper grits his teeth, pushing his legs faster. Well, he does know the basics. "Never mind, we've got a pilot!"

"What, _you?!_ " The girl sounds so incredulous it's insulting.

"Yes, me!" Dipper yells back. They're almost to the ship. "Unless you want to try and learn now!"

The girl's silence is telling.

"There!" Dipper yells, pointing at the abandoned ship half-hidden by tents. "We'll take that one!"

"Are you kidding me?" the girl shrieks. "That's garbage!"

"Garbage that's going to save our worthless lives!" Dipper shoots back, his breath coming in painful bursts. The girl gives a breathless, frustrated groan from behind him, but she follows him as he stumbles his way through the ancient, banged-up ship's doors, barely scraping the lower access door open.

Dipper stumbles into the ship, his sudden excitement at being aboard the ship matched only by the terror that he's about to be vaporized.

"So you _can_ shoot?"

" _Yes_ ," the girl snaps, as she darts towards the gun port. "You better be able to fly!"

Dipper doesn't reply, skidding into the cockpit. He feels a surge of terror as he stares down at the controls, panels covered in dust. He bites back against the anxiety. There's no time for second-guessing. He can fly this thing. He can fly anything.

He finds the few familiar controls, and the ship roars to life, bucking forwards as he forces it into the air. The engine is a little strained for Dipper's liking, but for as long as this thing's been lying around, it sounds okay.

"I can do this," he whispers to himself, willing his fingers to be firm on the controls. "I can do this."

He shoves the controls forward and the ship shoots forward, the thrum of the engines vibrating through the ship and ringing in his ears like an exhilarating tempo. Dipper slides into the seat, flicking the left switches on and better positioning the controls. He can see the fighters behind him, both on the sensors and in his gut, but he's not scared anymore.

"Hold on!" he yells, before thrusting the ship faster. They whip across the desert, sending sand billowing in their wake as the fighters' screeching echoes behind them, the sound of gunfire rife in the air. Dipper swings the ship to the left, reflexes he hadn't known existed prompting him. A second later, the sound of gunfire erupts from their own ship, and one of the fighters abruptly disappears off the ship's scanners, along with the telltale sound of a ship exploding.

"Yes!" The girl's excited shriek comes from the gun port. "I got him!"

Dipper feels a grin threaten to break across his own face, but it's quickly wiped away as the other two fighters flank them. His eyes dart wildly around the desert – there's no coverage to be found whatsoever on Jakku, unless you-

Well. Dipper doesn't hesitate as he abruptly changes the ship's course, veering left. It's a crazy, _crazy_ idea – but then again, so is letting some eighteen-year-old kid who's never flown in his life pilot with their lives at stake.

Dipper's heart is pounding loud enough to drown out all other sound, his palms sweaty around the controls, but he's going to make this. He _knows_ he will.

"Woah, woah, where are we going?" the girl yells, probably having caught sight of where he's taking them. "Are you crazy?! You can't just-"

Dipper ignores her, wrenches the controls to the left, and sends them hurtling through the exposed entrance of the fallen star destroyer.

His vision tunnels as they hurtle through the tight quarters, familiar circuitry whipping by them at light speed as he holds the ship steady by sheer willpower. The girl has quit screaming and is firing again, and the shaft behind them blossoms into orange flames as she finds her mark.

Unfortunately, it's at that moment that they lurch forward, the final fighter having found its mark. The girl swears.

"We've lost the guns!" she yells, fear evident in her voice. Dipper grits his teeth, eyes narrowing as he takes them through the final stretch of the star destroyer's hull. They don't need guns. He just needs to keep them from getting killed while he essentially commits suicide.

The girl's terrified shriek echoes though the ship as he sends the ship tilting sideways, WDL-5 screeching wildly as he sends them through the impossibly tiny opening, his knuckles white as he grips the controls.

They shoot out of the opening, the brilliant blue sky more welcome than it's ever been before.

The final fighter behind them does not.

Dipper gives a cry of victory, collapsing in relief against the chair as he figures out how to set a course for the inky blackness of space. He springs up, meeting the girl halfway in the hull of their stolen ship, impossibly wide grins plastered across both their faces.

"That was amazing! The way you piloted that last turn-"

"You're an _incredible_ shot, you hit those last two dead on-"

They burst into breathless laughter, grinning with the sheer giddiness of being _alive._ The girl takes a deep breath, still smiling as she brushes a strand of blonde hair from her face.

"I'm Pacifica, by the way," she says. "You?"

Dipper stares at her, laughter cut short by the shock of the question. No one's ever asked for his name.

"Dipper," he says, a small, shy smile breaking across his face. "I'm Dipper."

* * *

Mabel scratches aimlessly at a half-healing scab on her hand, wincing as the medic sponges antiseptic across her brow. The blow that dealt it hadn't been so bad, compared to what Mabel's had before. But what came after, the dark energy pulling and picking at her mind, dousing her in icy cold-

Mabel shivers. Even _she'd_ been rattled after that. The sith aren't playing around.

"Yes, I've got Mabel. Yes – yes, I'm going to look for it, alright? I _know_ how important this is. I _built_ the Resistance."

Mabel's eyes drift to her uncle where he stands at the holocom, talking in a hushed voice to the woman on the other end. She can't hear the woman's reply, too static-filled and choppy from the transmission they're using, but Stan's face tightens.

"I don't care if you need me there, this is – I can't abandon this. It's too important. And if the First Order gets the droid first-"

There's a burst of static from the other side, and Stan's face softens in relief. "Thanks. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He flicks the holocom off abruptly and marches over to her, placing a gentle hand in her hair. "How you feelin', sweetheart?"

"Better," Mabel says, her reply only a fraction of its normal enthusiasm. Stan sighs, taking a seat next to her.

"I'm sorry we couldn't save your friend, kiddo. We looked everywhere, but there wasn't a trace. The ship probably went down in the badlands."

"I know," Mabel whispers, running her fingers over the rough fabric of the blanket in her lap. "I just-" She blinks back tears. She'd been so happy, so excited to have found a friend from the other side, to have found someone she could help escape – and the girl had been so hesitant, but so _hopeful-_

Stan pulls her into a tight hug. "I know," he says, in miserable commiseration.

"I left Waddles," she whispers. The pain of that is almost choking. "Grunkle Stan, I left Waddles on Jakku – we have to go _back_ \- I left him all alone and he-"

"I know, sweetie, but you had to." He tilts her head to face him, giving her an encouraging grin. "You did really good, okay? And I'm going to get him the minute you're in hyperspace to D'Qar."

"But I want to-"

"No," Stan says, firmly. "You aren't going."

"That's not fair!" Mabel protests, feeling a spark of anger. "He's my droid! He's counting on me!"

"And he'll see you at the base," Stan says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Grunkle Stan, can't you just trust me-"

"That's not it!" Stan snaps. He sighs wearily, running a hand through his grey hair. "Mabel, sweetie, I almost lost you."

Any arguments die in Mabel's mouth as she watches her uncle, the weary lines of stress in his brow telling of how awful the last few days must have been for him.

"I'm sorry, Grunkle Stan," she whispers, leaning back against him. He returns the gesture, hugging her tightly.

"I already lost one kid," he says, voice watery. "I can't lose you."

Mabel squeezes her eyes shut, remembering their contact's words. She can't bear to tell Stan now, kill one of the few hopes they have left.

"Find Waddles, okay?" she says, instead.

"I will, Mabel. I promise."


End file.
